Grave Mercy (His Fair Assassin #1)(4)
“Trials?” I ask. “Is that what my life has been? A series of trials to be passed?”
“You come to us well tempered, my child, and it is not in my nature to be sorry for it. It is the well-tempered blade that is the strongest.”
“And who exactly is us?” My whole body stills, waiting for her answer.
“You have found refuge at the convent of St. Mortain. Although in truth, Mortain is older than any saint, older even than Christ.”
“One of the old gods we now call saints,” I murmur.
“Yes, one of the old gods. One not easily cast aside by the Church. And so we call Him saint, but as long as we serve Him, He cares not what He is called.”
“How does one serve Death?” Am I to spend my life collecting bodies in the bone cart?
The reverend mother does not flinch. "We carry out Mortain’s will when He wishes to alter the warp and weft of life’s weave for some purpose of His own.”
I look at her blankly, not understanding what weaving has to do with Mortain. She sighs and pushes away from her desk. “Perhaps some refreshment is in order.”
I want to beg her to tell me more of what being Death’s daughter might hold, but I suspect this woman does not suffer fools gladly, so I hold my tongue.
She takes a flagon of wine and two crystal goblets from the cupboard behind her desk. She pours the wine into the goblets and hands one to me. The cut crystal is finer than anything I have ever seen, and I hold it gingerly, afraid it will shatter in my hands.
“Here at the convent, it is our job to train those who are sired by the god of death. we teach them to perform their duties quickly and efficiently. Usually, we find that He has given His daughters some special skill or art. Abilities that will aid you as you carry out His work.”
His work. The words are ripe with possibility. I take a sip of wine to steady myself. It is sweet and crisp on my tongue.
“If I may guess a little about you?” the reverend mother asks. I nod, and she continues. “You never get sick with the ague or the chills or the flux. even the plague leaves you untouched, is that correct?”
I feel my eyes widen at her uncanny knowledge. “How do you know such things?”
She smiles. “And I know you can survive harsh beatings and heal within days. Do you also have dreams that foretell death?”
“No.” I shake my head, sorry to disappoint her. “But sometimes I can tell when people are going to die.”
She tilts her head to the side. “Go on.”
I look down and study the wine in the goblet. “I can see them fading sometimes. It’s like watching a flame grow dim in a lantern. And once, I saw a mark. On the blacksmith. He had a faint black smudge on his forehead in the shape of a horseshoe. Three days later he was dead.”
She leans forward in her chair, eager now. “How did he die?”
“He was kicked in the head by one of the horses as he worked.”
“Ah.” A pleased smile hovers at the corners of her mouth. “Mortain has given you powerful gifts.” She takes up the quill and makes a notation on the parchment in front of her. Small beads of perspiration begin to form on my forehead and I take another sip of wine to steady myself. It is hard to air old secrets.
“So,” she says, looking back up at me. “You are well equipped for our service.”
"Which is?”
"We kill people.” The reverend mother’s words fall like stones into the quiet of the room, so shocking that my body goes numb. I hear the splintering of crystal as my goblet hits the floor.
The abbess ignores the shattered goblet. “Of course, many die without our help. However, there are those who deserve to die but who have not yet encountered the means to do so. At Mortain’s bidding, we help them on their way.”
“Surely He does not need our help?”
Anger flares in the abbess and for the first time I feel the iron will I have only vaguely sensed before. "Who are you to say what the god of death needs or doesn’t need? Mortain is an old god and has no desire to be forgotten and fade from this world, which is why He chooses to bestir Himself in the affairs of man.” She stares at me for a moment longer, then the tension leaves her, like a wave going out to sea. "What do you know of the old gods?” she asks.
“Only that they were once the nine old gods of Brittany but now we call them saints. And we must leave them an occasional offering or prayer if we do not wish to offend them or incur their wrath.”
“You are close,” the abbess says, leaning back in her chair, “but that is not the whole of it. The old gods are neither man nor God, but something in between. They were the first inhabitants of our land, sent to do God’s bidding in this new world He had created.
“At first, the relationship between gods and man was a difficult one, the gods treating us much as we treat cattle or sheep. But soon we learned to honor them with prayer and offerings, which led to harmony between us. even the early Church, when it arrived, was content to let us honor the old gods, although we learned to call them saints then. But lately, that has been changing. Just as France has gobbled up most of the smaller kingdoms and duchies so it may claim all their power for its own, so too does this latest pope work to extinguish any trace of the old ways, wanting all the prayers and offerings for his own church.
“So now more and more put aside the old ways and traditions that honor the gods of Brittany. But not all. Some still raise their voices in prayer and make their offerings. If not for that worship and supplication, the old gods would fade from this world. Surely you can understand why Mortain would not wish that. He feeds off our belief and worship much as we feed off bread and meat and would starve without it.